Hayloft

Prologue

George was never the one who grew religious.

He never read the bible, never mingled a rosary, never stepped a foot into a church.

God's presence, devil's belief: Didn't favor any side of Christian or Atheist, alternately left rooted to the neutral line left middle between the two clashing faiths. No temptation or promises of goods yanked him hard enough to join anyone either.

George wasn't Catholic, nor was he a supporter of Satan.

George was George.

Doe-eyed, pale, tried 8-year-old boy of Britain who wanted nothing more than break out of London's constant lousy streets.

And a family visit to his old grandparents' countryside shack was nothing short of a perfect excuse to comply with his wish of peace. How excited he was, packing all his clothing and pampered toys, all supplied up. Too giddy for the image of witnessing hoards of farm animals available as to keep as pets.

He even remembers bringing his beloved white googles along, not for sun protection- But all just solely for the sake of drowning in sweet compliments from his grandmother cooing about how handsome he grew up.

That horrible, uncanny, strange torment of faith disguised as an exciting journey to the Hayloft. That one night who cursed his so treasured white googles as a horrific reminder to that specific hay.

That horrible white, clay mask.

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A loud shrieking scream of car drums frightened George out of his sleep, the British man nearly falling off his bed in alarm. Eyes widened and brows furrowed, he whipped his head toward the source of the repeating thundering noise.

In a single glare, his eyes were immediately assaulted by painfully sharp sunlight raying from the curtainless window, instantly running a hand up his eyes to recover off the strains of ache with a low groan.

Just wake up in the morning and he is already getting a headache. Great.

Florida's sunny weather and London's gloomy skies. They were certain opposites of each other and George wasn't used to the immediate change of pace yet.

Especially the sun. He never felt more frustrated against an inanimate planet more than ever in his life right now.

But as if he could go to his job manager and rant 'Excuse me, sir, your country's sun is little too bright for my taste, could you please lower its opacity?' with a straight face. Job requirements sucked and if his manager only knew how he goddamn ringed a flight right off the UK to America just solely for this excuse alone.

George growled again- But it was nothing out loud of audible, either from his hand muffling around his lips or the outside dominantly loud car rings barely sparing a room to be heard-  Grumpily, he pulled his blanket over his head, which only silenced his morning tantrum even more, if not just helped a tiny bit isolate his poor eardrums from the raging growls of an active street.

Why is Florida too sunny, too hot, too loud- Just, too much everything-

[BEEP BEEP BEEP]

Nearly fisting his hand down to the vibrating alarm's surface, George let a loud string of growl escape his mouth.

Just as he wanted to stay and enjoy a moment like this laying with his angry vent of Florida, hunched and cuddled with his blanket- regardless of how suffocatingly hot the position was, ugh Florida weather -It just also perfectly happen to sync where time jumps to 8 AM, a loud reminder tinging about his next hour unpleasant job time he sacrificed too much for.